


the milk of paradise

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Community: bucketlist, F/F, Lactation Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"At times your curiosity is maddening," Kanaya says. She looks into the middle distance over your shoulder. "As you know, when it comes time for trolls to reproduce, it is rather a do-or-die situation. Failing to follow through with the deed is disastrous for all parties involved, so it is advantageous to be able to stimulate your partner chemically in addition to emotionally."</p>
<p>"You secrete a natural aphrodisiac," you say, to be sure you are understanding her correctly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the milk of paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Anon at bucketlist left this lovely thing:
> 
> _For I on honeydew hath fed/and drunk the milk of paradise._
> 
> Troll breasts are for making honeydew.  
> Sweet, sweet honeydew. Psychoactive, aphrodisiac honeydew.

The first time neither of you manage to fully undress; the eruption of simmering tension into full-blown passion rather overwhelms you both, in ways that leave you tangled, sweaty and still dressed, undergarments discarded around ankles, panting for breath as you gaze into each other's eyes in wonder and delight at finally confirming your mutual compatibility. The second time is fumbled in the dark in a hurry, her body still mostly covered so her own light won't draw attention, and she clings to your shoulders and breathes your name like a prayer. The third time she pins you to the wall, her body a cool solid weight behind you, her fingers driving you out of your mind as her teeth scrape but don't puncture the back of your neck.

But the fourth time you are determined that you _will_ undress, both of you; Kanaya looks lovely in every outfit you've ever seen on her, and you have every confidence that she will look stunning in no outfit at all. You suspect there may be cultural implications to being nude with one's partner, that the symbolic vulnerability of it has emotional resonance for a species as violent as trolls. You take the lead.

With her lips pressed to yours—her kisses, as ever, nearly too delicate, overcompensating so she won't make you bleed—you put your plan into operation, unfastening your cape, letting it fall to the floor. Kanaya hums against your mouth, a beautifully alien low buzz. You realize there is no subtle way to reach the zipper at the nape of your neck while so engaged. There is nothing for it; you must break the kiss.

"Kanaya," you say. After months on the asteroid you think you have nearly mastered the pitch shifts between syllables, the faint aspiration underlying the K. "May I ask for your assistance?"

She arches a perfect eyebrow. "I am always at your service," she says.

You turn your back; that, also, is probably a significant act. "My zipper, please?"

"Of course," Kanaya murmurs. Her fingers brush feather-light along your spine in the wake of the zipper skimming down. You shrug your shoulders and let your god tier dress slip down off them; it's loose enough to fall easily, pooling around your ankles. Kanaya's breath hitches; her hands hover at the middle of your back, waiting for permission to unfasten your bra.

"Go ahead," you tell her, glancing back over your shoulder. She does, her fingers deft.

As you let that fall, too, you begin to feel the symbolic weight of that vulnerability yourself. You acknowledge the feeling, turn it over in your mind, and dismiss it firmly. You are no more or less vulnerable now than you were five minutes ago. Your power does not reside in your clothes.

You turn to face Kanaya again, watching the way her gaze wanders downward and then hurriedly returns to your face. You're smirking just slightly, and a jade tinge suffuses the glow of her face. You let your fingers slip under the edge of her sash. "Yes?" you ask.

There's still a moment when she hesitates, not quite enough to make you reconsider but long enough to make you careful. "Yes," she says. "Of course. This is...a logical next step, is it not?"

"And logic," you say dryly, "is certainly what guides our actions in times like these." You kiss her again as you start to unwind her sash, and because you aren't worried at all about being too rough for her you bite her lip. She thrum-growls, forgetting her hesitation, and her eyes flutter shut as she deepens the kiss. Her sash surrenders quickly to your hands, and the buttons of her skirt last only slightly longer. Her skin is gloriously cool and smooth under your fingers; you could use marble metaphors with no irony and very little exaggeration. Your heart beats faster when her teeth graze your lip, your nipples stiffening at the threat.

She offers no resistance when you tug her shirt up and over her head; its loss dishevels her hair in a way you are far gone enough to find lovely. The first thing you notice is the fact that her undergarments match. (Yours pointedly do not; as part of a petty need to defy propriety, you alchemized new mismatched ones after your god tier costume turned out to be all of a set.)

The second thing you notice is that the pearl gray of her bra is damp and green in two tell-tale spots. Your eyebrows climb toward your hairline. "You are...lactating?"

Kanaya hesitates, her hands rising and then falling to her sides again as she visibly resists the impulse to cover her breasts. "Not precisely," she says. "If I understand it correctly, that term refers specifically to the production of milk in order to feed your young. Trolls can do no such thing, though some of the more well-adapted lusii may produce a supplement for their charges that approximates...." She trails off at your expression. "Forgive me for digressing. A troll's thoracic glandular secretions serve a rather different purpose."

"And that purpose embarrasses you," you deduce. "Or at least discussing it with me does."

"At times your curiosity is maddening," Kanaya says. She looks into the middle distance over your shoulder. "As you know, when it comes time for trolls to reproduce, it is rather a do-or-die situation. Failing to follow through with the deed is disastrous for all parties involved, so it is advantageous to be able to stimulate your partner chemically in addition to emotionally."

"You secrete a natural aphrodisiac," you say, to be sure you are understanding her correctly.

"If you have made any progress with that novel of Karkat's," Kanaya says with a nod, "you may have seen references to honeydew in the more lurid passages. Its use is ubiquitous in that sort of stormy quadrant-flipping narrative."

You make a mental note to work harder at learning to read Alternian. "I wonder if it would affect humans," you say. At times perhaps your curiosity _does_ cause trouble.

"Our species are fairly compatible in many respects, but there are enough differences that it might not." Kanaya looks thoughtful instead of uncomfortable now, which seems like a step in the right direction. "Dave might know already, of course. Terezi is developing ample stimulus glands."

You shake your head. "He wouldn't admit it if he knew," you say. "Especially not to me."

"Of course," Kanaya says. "Your human taboos about sharing sexual experiences with those to whom you are genetically close, correct?"

You purse your lips to prevent the helpless smile. "You're being deliberately obtuse, when I know for a fact you know the term _incest_."

"I am simply trying to be precise," Kanaya says, so blandly straight faced that you could almost believe her.

"I'm skeptical," you admit. "I think you might in fact be trying to distract me from the matter at hand." Kanaya's bra clasps in the front; you unhook it carefully, sparing a moment as you slip it free to ponder the incomprehensible whimsy of your universes' creator, making your bodies so similar despite the disparity in your species' needs. Then you're looking at the soft curves of her breasts, the pale green buds of her nipples against the frosted pallor of her skin, and you decide natural philosophy can wait. You lick your lips, make yourself look up to meet her eyes. "May I?" you ask, and you almost don't recognize your own voice.

Kanaya nods, ever so slightly. She looks like she's trying to hide her nervousness, but subtle expressions for a troll are still semaphores compared to your brother's poker face or your own. You resist the urge to reassure her; now is the time, as the poet said, for a little less conversation and a little more action.

You sink to your knees and wrap your arms around the elegant curve of her waist, leaning in close. You lick one of her nipples delicately: she shivers, and you get your first taste of her honeydew. Your tongue tingles with its tangy, strange sweetness. You take her nipple in your mouth and suckle; more of her sweet fluid spills across your tongue, and her fingers catch in your hair, pulling tight. You aren't sure which of those things to blame for the burst of heat between your thighs, but it hardly matters. You let your teeth graze her skin, reaching up to cup her other breast in one hand, to roll the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Honeydew slicks your fingers and Kanaya growls, a soft, hungry sound, her claws prickling against your scalp. The taste makes you want more, and you suck harder.

Your skin feels flushed with heat, your own nipples stiffening, your pulse thrumming in your clit. You moan in response to her next growl, and she drags you up off your knees. "We will continue this on your bed," she says, her voice raw and husky, more demanding than you've ever heard. You press close, unable to help yourself, claiming a messy, wet kiss. You must be under the honeydew's influence; you can't bring yourself to hold back.

And Kanaya is far from protesting, herself; she kisses you hard, her back arching as you take a better grip and twist her nipple between your fingers. Her teeth cut your bottom lip and that only makes you shiver and clutch at her as she drags you to bed. She licks your scarlet blood from her black lips with a pale green tongue and you _ache_ for her all over.

She pulls back to look at you, and you lick her honeydew off your fingers, meeting her eyes in a challenge—and more heat washes along your limbs, making you squirm. You already wanted her; you are only managing to make your own craving worse. You suck every drop of her from your fingertips as she pushes her panties down, and then she is on you again. She takes hold of your underwear and pulls, twists, claws catching in cotton and tearing. Your heels brace against the bed and your hips arch upward, offering yourself, the slick and swollen heat of—this is no time for delicate euphemism; you feel raw and vulgar and _hungry_ —of your cunt. Kanaya plants a knee between your thighs and you grind down against it as she takes you by the hair to pull your mouth back to her breasts.

You lick, bite, suckle, swallow down her fluids, and when she takes one of your nipples between clever cool fingers and twists sharply you buck against her, pleasure blazing through your nerves. She's growling your name, _Rhose, Rhose_ , the _r_ barely rising out of her throat. Your cunt feels molten, wet enough to be a match for a troll; every rocking motion of your hips sends another ripple of pleasure through your flesh. There is no peak, no climax, only this endless thrumming pulse of delight.

You fumble, your coordination almost entirely absent, and manage to slide your hand up the inside of her thigh. Her seedflap is unfurled, exposing the delicate parts it protects; you press the heel of your hand against her plump, swollen bulge as you push three fingers up her nook. Kanaya rocks down on you, _taking_ your hand, and your whole world is nothing but her, all your senses filled with the dizzying, blurry pleasure of her presence—the sweetness of her fluid in your mouth, the soft growls she makes as she moves over you, the press of her thigh against your clit and the sodden clutch of her nook around your fingers.

It's almost too much to bear—your body isn't built to sustain this pitch of sensation—but you can't bring yourself to pull away from her, to let go, to _stop_. Your free hand clutches at her shoulder, and you're whining in your throat, an utterly undignified noise. Kanaya catches your hand, brings your wrist to her lips, _bites_ , oh—your head swims, the lovely sharp prick of her fangs and the sweet lethargy in your veins; you think, _everything about her is intoxicating, and that isn't even melodrama_ , as colors blossom behind your closed eyelids, slow spreading blooms of sienna and maroon and then black—

The next thing you're aware of is a cool hand stroking your hair back from your forehead. "Rose," Kanaya is saying, soft but urgent. "Are you all right?"

You open your eyes and smile up at her wearily. "I feel like the heroine of a Victorian vampire novel," you say, "and I suppose I can see now why they would leave their windows unbarred for their nocturnal visitors' return."

The worry lines between Kanaya's brows smooth away, and she gives you the faint, exasperated smile you've grown so fond of. "Indeed," she says. "And now we have found the circumstances in which your penchant for obscure references is more reassuring than frustrating." She leans down to kiss you, her mouth chaste and soft again.

"I'm sorry for worrying you," you say. "Was I out long?"

Kanaya's cheeks flush slightly. "I do not believe so," she says. "I was...somewhat distracted, however."

You flex your wrist where she bit you; already you can scarcely see the mark, between your god tier healing and whatever soothing properties a rainbow drinker's bite has. Then you realize there is additional evidence of her distraction drying on your other hand and your thigh; the sheets will probably never recover. "Rather distracted, I see," you say, and her blush deepens. "I'm glad I didn't leave you unsatisfied, despite my own inattentiveness."

"Most certainly not," Kanaya says. She can barely look you in the eyes. You feel fluttery and stupid with affection, your heart clenching with an almost frightening tenderness. You wonder how different this is from the feelings she would call flushed. You wonder if you should attempt quadrant-based romance. You wonder how you got so lucky, that of the handful of trolls to play the game and then reach the asteroid alive, Kanaya would be one of them.

She strokes your cheek, gently, fondly. "You look lost in thought," she says. "What is it?"

You smile. "Wondering whether I can expect your honeydew to make me maudlin and sentimental every time I indulge," you say.

"Every time?" Kanaya asks, raising an eyebrow. "You want to repeat the experience?"

You take stock of your exhaustion, your aches, the lingering fuzziness around the edges of your mind. "Perhaps not as a habit," you say. You wouldn't want to spend too much time under the influence of any chemical, no matter how pleasant—and you certainly wouldn't want to give the impression that you wanted Kanaya only when drugged into it. "But on occasion, yes."

Kanaya's lips curve. She is utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. "I believe," she says, "I could be convinced to provide."


End file.
